


A Thousand Letters Written, Three Words Unsaid

by crabmoney3



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: 12x100, Ascension, It's all about the YEARNING, Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, Vignettes, Yearning, blood rain, did i mention the yearning yet, feedback, i have val/pedro brainrot, i really care them ok, some graphic descriptions (vignettes 5 and 11), they're in love they just won't fucking say it the dumbasses !!!!, unstable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabmoney3/pseuds/crabmoney3
Summary: a timeline of moments between Pedro Davids and Valentine Games, from meeting as children through the ascension, told in 12 scenes of 100 words each
Relationships: Valentine Games/Pedro Davids
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	A Thousand Letters Written, Three Words Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> a bunch of the crab fic writers are doing 12x100s right now inspired by this article https://pigeonize.medium.com/boy-in-lake-b1516b722cf1 ! please enjoy, and if you do, check out the other 12x100 blaseball fics!

A Thousand Letters Written, Three Words Unsaid

by crabmoney3

i.

Two boys’ faces reflect in the thick aquarium glass, the eyes of the sharks swimming past twice the size of their own. They’ve known each other for seven minutes, one for each year they’ve been on earth. Already, they’ve shared a lifetime.

The one who lives here scribbles his mailing address onto the back of the visitor’s notebook.

“We can be pen pals!”

“I’ve never written a letter to someone.”

“Well, now you will.”

The resident smiles his goofy, gap-toothed smile, and takes the visitor’s hand. The visitor blushes while squeezing back.

“Pedro, vamanos,” calls the mother.

The boys say goodbye.

ii.

“Dear Pedro,

Happy birthday! Amazing to think we have known each other for half of our lives. I hope your day is filled with the joy of celebration and lots of sweet, sweet cakes. I often dream of the dulce de leche cookies you sent for my own. In other news, I’ve been experimenting with poetry. The next page contains a draft.

Love,

Valentine”

Pedro rubs his fingers along the paper’s crinkled edge. He reads the poem, and it nearly brings him to tears. Nearly, because he refuses to be the kind of teenager who cries at his own party.

iii.

Valentine notices him first. The Baltimore summer air is thick and humid, and Valentine uses it to slick back his hair. He watches the gangly man approaching him from across university quad.

Pedro is grateful that the sweat of August and the sweat of nerves can mingle into one indeterminate liquid. He tries to distract himself, looking at orientation week banners and welcome balloons and every leaf on every tree to avoid making eye contact with the friend he hasn’t seen in a decade. He nearly crashes into him.

“Hey Pedro.”

“Oh, hi, Val.”

“It’s been a while.”

Valentine grins.

iv.

Late nights in a campus library drain the boys, fluorescent lighting like a haze over rows of identical desks and itchy seat cushions. Pedro feels a weight on his shoulders nearly as heavy as those under his eyes. His mouth tastes like dust trapped beneath a plastic book cover. He begins to take slump over the mounds of research in front of him when a familiar hand falls lightly on his shoulder.

A large coffee cup thunks in front of Pedro, breaking the silence of studying. He takes a sip. Coffee, cream, two sugars. Just the way he likes it.

v.

Baltimore burns, bringing the boys together. They stay by each other’s sides while their city crumbles, the Crab Mother taunting them and her citizens turning against her. She is Pedro’s life’s work. She raised Val. Val knows he must protect the people. Pedro stands still.

Val cannot hear what she says to his friend, only the aftermath of Pedro shrieking, joining the fight, tearing limbs with a ferocity Val didn’t know he contained. He does not hold him back. Blood spills into the harbor. Val is unsure if the red on Pedro is blood or a reflection of flame-tinted sky.

vi.

A city, safe. A crab shell, emptied. A blanket draped over shoulders, a mug of tea in hands. Baltimore is silent around the boys trying to decide how to acknowledge what they’ve seen. Maybe they never will.

A pair of cracked glasses sits on the bench beside them. A joke about nominative determinism; a heart-shaped pair could be a fine replacement.

Rough hands shake, spilling droplets of tea. Two more help steady them, and they are once again seven, watching the sharks swim in the water of the mug. They are not fine now, but they will be. They will.

vii.

The practice field is bustling as Crabs one by one take their turn at bat. Pedro sits snugly behind home plate, catcher’s squat counterbalanced by his beat-up RV. Tillman Henderson practices pitching, poorly, and it’s Val Games’ turn to bat.

“Pssst, hey Val.”

“What?”

Pedro snatches the ball. Strike one.

“Not much, how about you?”

“Pedro, stop distracting me. I’m trying to bat.”

“Then swing, batter.”

Val does. He misses. Strike two.

“You’ll be getting a strongly worded letter about this, my friend.”

“Good. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Valentine hits a double. Pedro smiles behind his mask.

viii.

The RV feels emptier after this game. No friend to share it with. He already longs to see the man he cares most about again.

On the table is a note on soft pink stationary. Pedro opens it gently, careful not to tear the paper. His heart swells when he sees the handwriting.

“My Dearest Pedro,

Do not fret. We are merely children again, writing letters back and forth and delighting in each other’s days. Only this time, we will not be separated for a decade, just until the next game.

Yours, always,

Valentine”

Pedro reads the letter and cries.

ix.

“Is the blindfold really necessary?”

“Yes. Spies policy, I’m afraid. You’ll have to leave it on until we’re far enough away from the stadium.”

“And then you’ll be able to show me Houston in a way I can see it?”

Val laughs. “Yes, I will. Now just let me guide you.”

Valentine walks backwards, checking over his shoulder to make sure he isn’t drifting. He’d rather do this than lead Pedro by the RV. Their callused hands fit comfortably into each other, and Pedro follows along without fear, knowing he’d let Valentine bring him to the ends of the Earth.

x.

This can’t be how it ends, with a buzzing and burning and with feelings unsaid. Pedro locks himself in the RV. Kennedy bangs on the door. He ignores it. He ignores all of them. There is only one person that matters right now.

He drafts a letter, just in case. If he is lucky, it will never be sent. He pours out years of emotions onto the pages, hand shaking but not so much his words become illegible. He could call Val, and tell him all of these things out loud. But the writing is easier.

Val never receives it.

xi.

Blood rain pours from the sky. The fields have been ruthless in recent days, and ruthlessness begins to seep into the players. The boys are not immune. Raucous thunder booms and something rumbles in Pedro.

Valentine watches, holding back horror as he sees the man he fought with during the uprising so many years before resurface. The ferocity. The unhinged look of the one he cares for most. He feels for him. He fears for him.

When Pedro finishes, he looks back up at Val. Valentine can tell that Pedro is sorry. This time he knows what the red is.

xii.

Pedro places a little sealed envelope into Valentine’s palm before game three of the playoffs. Val rubs his thumb over the soft red wax and begins to peel it up.

“No, don’t.”

He stops. “Why not?”

“Not yet. Not until we know what happens next.”

Val nods. No one knows what ascension will mean. He hopes the Crabs will miss again, but he knows better than that.

There are so many words hanging in the air, unsaid and unwritten. Even Valentine, poet extraordinaire, is at a loss for words. They say nothing, and hug.

The boys know this is goodbye.


End file.
